


Tis the Season

by Englishtutor



Series: The Other Doctor Watson [21]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Also Christmas Dinner, Assassins & Hitmen, Bloodstained Cabs, Gen, Kidnappings and threats, Medieval Weaponry, The Avengers or perhaps Mythical Gods, The Most Dangerous Drug Lord in England, Thor and His Hammer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 13:42:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6958981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englishtutor/pseuds/Englishtutor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock, John, and Mary celebrate the Yuletide Season in their own, special way. With a reverent nod and many apologies to ACD's "Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tis the Season

The cabbie’s voice abruptly snapped him out of the fogginess of his own mind. “We’re here, sir,” the man said, a bit impatiently. Sherlock had not missed the reluctance this cabbie had felt about picking him up, and now he could see both the man’s eagerness to be rid of him and dismay at the blood soaking into the green upholstery. Red and green. How festive for the Yuletide season! He roused himself to tumble awkwardly out of the vehicle and managed to pay his fare with a generous tip. It was the least he could do—the first three cabbies he’d tried to flag down, clearly unmoved by the spirit of Christmas, had refused to stop for him at all.

He crunched with uncertain footing through the snow to the door of the building, stumbled inside, and dragged himself up the stairs to the first floor, feeling weaker with every step. He had been applying pressure to the wound in his arm as best he could, but he knew his blood loss was unacceptable. He would lose consciousness if he didn’t get help soon. Already, his vision was beginning to narrow and black spots were appearing before his eyes.

Thudding himself against the door with all his might, knocking the cheerful, beribboned holly wreath askew, he sagged to the floor with relief. He had made it. Help was just on the other side. The door opened and he heard Mary’s horrified gasp. 

“Sherlock! What on earth!” She helped him up and supported his weight as she manoeuvred him into the flat. His eyes roamed beyond her, into the room, but she was alone. He looked up and saw her eyes searching the empty corridor behind him before shutting the door, and his heart went cold.

“Where’s John?” they both asked at once. He watched her face lose all colour with her growing realization that he had expected to find John at home. She grabbed his lapels in both hands and shook him in a paroxysm of panic. 

“What do you mean, where’s John?” she cried, her voice shaking. “He was with you!”

The movement jarred his cracked ribs and he gasped in pain in spite of his best efforts not to. Her terrified face immediately registered regret for her actions. “Oh, Sweetheart, I’m so sorry, I. . . .”

He shook his head slowly, his vision going dark. “No matter. I’m fine,” he managed to murmur. 

She went into doctor-mode, all business now. “You’re not fine. Good lord, what happened to you? Were you hit by a train?” She helped him to the sofa and out of his Belstaff and ripped open what remained of his shirt sleeve, fussing over his arm, staunching the still free-flowing bloody wound. “No, this is knife-work, isn’t it? You’ve been in a fight. And John wasn’t with you?”

“We left Baker Street at the same time, but I was headed to Scotland Yard to go over the evidence for the trial tomorrow. John was coming straight here.” He paused for breath, his vision clearing a bit. He focused on the cheery lights of the Christmas tree in the corner so as to avoid Mary’s stricken gaze. “I was accosted before I could get a cab, taken into an alley at gunpoint, and . . . well, you can see that perpetrators had a message for me. They took my phone, so I just got a cab and came along here.”

Mary shook her head, visibly trying to remain calm, but clearly nauseated with worry. “So, you are giving evidence against one of the biggest, most successful drug lords in England tomorrow and you two thought that splitting up and traveling through the city alone was a good idea. Good lord, why haven’t you both been murdered long before now? Have you no sense whatsoever?” The bleeding was finally under control, and she sat back and grabbed up her phone. John’s mobile went straight to voice mail, but it was a stranger’s voice that spoke.

“This is John Watson’s mobile phone. He is currently indisposed. And he will be dead if that meddling detective friend of his shows up in court tomorrow. Don’t bother leaving a message at the beep.”

Mary did not meet Sherlock’s eyes. Her face was white and a study in controlled panic. Jabbing at the phone frantically, she called another number.

“Greg, John’s missing. Sherlock’s been beaten within an inch of his life, and John’s gone. Call his mobile and listen to the voice mail message. No, not Sherlock’s, John’s!” Mary’s voice raised to a sharp pitch. Sherlock had seen this young woman in many different circumstances, but never before had he heard her raise her voice to Lestrade. He could hear the D.I. on the other end, shouting orders to someone. 

There was a moment of silence, and then Lestrade was back on the line. “We’ll find him, Mary. Don’t worry. When did he disappear? Where was he last seen?”

Sherlock took the phone from her hand. “About an hour ago, on Baker Street. He was headed for the tube station, on his way home. Start there.”

“Sherlock, where are you? Are you all right?”

“I’m at the Watson’s flat. I’ll be fine. Just find John, Lestrade,” Sherlock commanded sharply. Why did everyone move so slowly? Why was Lestrade still talking when clearly he should already be on his way to Baker Street? He threw the phone down in frustration and tried to rise from the sofa. Mary easily held him back.

“Sit still, Sweetheart. I haven’t given you permission to leave my surgery yet,” she said gently. “I’ve stopped the bleeding, but that wound needs stitches. And I have a feeling that you’ve sustained a number of other injuries that require attention.” She left the room briefly and returned with her well-equipped med kit. Handing him a bottle, she instructed him to drink it down. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. You need to rehydrate quickly.” He did as he was told. Somehow, he always felt compelled to do whatever Mary told him. 

“We shouldn’t be wasting time on this. I’m fine. We need to find John!” Sherlock insisted as she bustled past him into the kitchen to put on the kettle. He immediately regretted his outburst when he saw Mary’s composure break. She had her back to him, busy with the kettle, and her shoulders sagged and her head bowed in despair. He heard a soft sob and rose, with difficulty, to hover at her side.

This was not his area. He had no idea what he should do to console her.

"I shouldn't have left him. We should have stayed together,” he admitted, his voice husky with regret. “I’m sorry, Mary. We’ll find him, or I won’t give evidence tomorrow and they’ll let him go.”

She turned to look him in the eye. “Do you really believe that?”

He couldn’t answer. The kettle whistled and she mechanically poured the hot water into a basin. “Sit down, Sweetheart,” she said softly. “I can’t help him, but I can look after you.” He sat at the kitchen table and unbuttoned his shirt while she snapped on some surgical gloves. She helped him peel the blood-stiffened material from his skin and threw the tattered garment into the bin. Then she cleaned him up and injected his arm with a local anaesthetic. He noted with some part of his brain that her suturing looked different from John’s, perhaps because John was left-handed. Mary had never sewn him up before. This was John’s job. He felt a wave of nausea as he pictured what John might be experiencing now. If John’s captors had been anything like his own. . . .

As she worked, Mary kept him talking. He knew she was attempting to keep him conscious, but she also needed to understand what was happening. At first, it was all clinical questions: Had he been struck in the head? Where else was he hurt? Did he think he had any broken bones? Why on earth had he not gone to hospital rather than coming to her? He answered mechanically—his head was fine; his ribs were cracked; why have a personal physician if one just went to hospital when injured?

Then she asked the hard question: “Why did John leave you, Sherlock? Why would he not go to NSY with you?”

Sherlock felt as sheepish as he ever had in his life. “Remember that butcher fellow, whom we cleared of a murder charge? He came by and gave us a Christmas goose. John was quite excited about it; he seemed to feel it would especially please you. He would not leave it in my flat. He insisted upon presenting it to you as soon as possible. But I did not wish to be seen in Scotland Yard carrying a frozen fowl about with us.”

Mary’s expression softened. “My dear, sweet Captain. He knows how I’ve been longing for goose for Christmas dinner. But it’s so dear this time of year, we couldn’t justify the expense.” Her eyes hardened then, glaring at Sherlock. “But honestly, to risk your lives over it! You should know better!”

Mary had just finished stitching him up when her phone rang. “Greg? Is John with you?” Her voice was filled with both hope and dread. She put the D.I. on speakerphone so Sherlock could hear.

Lestrade’s voice was filled with concern. “I’m sorry, Mary, we haven’t found him yet. But we have found three men in an alley, two unconscious with fractured skulls and one with a broken arm and a concussion. They have John’s wallet and handgun in their possession, but not John’s phone. This chap tells us that John worked his hands out of the ropes they tied him with, attacked them with some kind of bludgeon, and took off. Three more of their number are chasing him down. We’re following their tracks. We’ll find him, Mary, never fear.”

Mary looked at Sherlock with astonishment in her eyes. “You’re saying that John fought off six armed men all by himself and escaped?”

"I only had five assailants," Sherlock muttered under his breath, feeling a bit insulted. But, to be fair, he had not fought off his five chaps, and John had managed six. He wondered how many more assailants it would have taken to capture John and keep him.

Greg laughed harshly. “Yeah, this chap here is babbling on about Thor and his hammer. Apparently John is now one of the Avengers. Or a mythical god. I’m not sure which.”

Mary visibly gathered her composure. “Thanks for the update, Greg. I know you’re doing everything you can.” She rang off and turned back to her patient. “There, now let’s check those ribs, shall we?” She did not seem to notice the tears coursing down her face as she worked.

“Mary? This was encouraging news,” Sherlock said carefully. “Are you all right?”

“No,” she admitted abruptly. “I’m worried out of my mind. He might be a mythical god, but he’s out there alone in the snow, without a weapon or a phone or any money or identification, being chased by three ruthless thugs. The same sort who did THIS to you.” She indicated his bruised and battered body. “Who knows what kind of damage they did to him before they tied him up?”

She began wrapping his ribs, and he felt a bit better with the support. The fog that that been clouding brain was lifting and he felt a bit stronger. He stood and headed to the Watson’s spare room, where he habitually kept some changes of clothes and other things he might need if he happened to spend the night with them, as he frequently did. He swayed a bit as he went, and Mary rushed to support him.

“Take it slowly, Sweetheart. Give yourself time to recover. Once you’ve dressed, I want you to drink some more, and then lie down and rest.”

“No, I’m going out to find John,” Sherlock informed her. “I can follow his trail better than anyone. I’ll find him.”

Mary opened her mouth to argue, but just then her phone rang again.

“Mary, listen,” came Lestrade’s breathless voice. “We still haven’t found John, but we’ve found two more of his assailants. They’re in pretty rough shape. They say John ambushed them, swinging a mace. Now there’s only one chap pursuing him, the one with John’s phone. We’re still on the trail.”

“A mace?” Mary whispered, confused. “Like a ball on a chain kind of mace?”

“I don’t know, Mary, these chaps are petrified. They hardly know what it is they’ve seen. All I know is, John Watson is not going down easily! He’ll be all right,” Lestrade assured her wryly. Mary thanked him in a daze and hung up.

Sherlock frowned and continued to make his way to the spare room. Whatever Lestrade thought, he knew that the man following John was ruthless and, most likely, was armed. Mary followed him silently and helped him to dress. He considered feeling humiliated that she was treating him like a two-year-old, but decided he was actually quite grateful for the help. He was certainly none too steady on his feet as yet.

“Come along, lie down on the sofa. I’ll bring you some water. I want you to drink as much as you can,” Mary said when they were done.

“I am going out to find John!” Sherlock insisted stubbornly, and stumbled over his own feet, nearly tumbling on his head. Mary steadied him just in time.

“You are going to do exactly as I say,” she informed him firmly. “And nothing else.” He meekly obeyed. She fetched him more water, and as he was sipping it her phone rang once again.

“Mary, if you hear from John, let him know he’s not being pursued any longer,” Lestrade said in a tone of voice that sounded both serious and amused at the same time. “This last chap just turned himself in to the nearest police station, begging for protection. Apparently he’s more afraid of John than he is of his employer. But I’m not sure John knows this. He may still be in hiding. At any rate, we’ve lost his trail. We’ll keep looking, don’t worry. He’ll turn up.”

“What on earth is going on, Greg?” Mary demanded. “Do you have any idea whether John is injured, or where he’s coming up with these medieval weapons out on the street?”

“We’ll just have to ask John when he turns up, Mary. I’m sorry I don’t know any more,” Lestrade replied.

Mary hung up and stared at the silent phone. Sherlock tried to think of something to say that could comfort her. She looked lost and confused, unsure of how to feel; he understood this, as his mind was equally in a turmoil of uncertainty. 

The door opened. “You’ve no idea what a time I’ve had getting home from work today,” John’s dry voice said.

Mary gasped, then squealed and threw herself at the haggard and panting form of John Watson that appeared in the room. “John! You’re alive! You’re all right!” she cried, tears of relief starting in her eyes. “Are you hurt?”

“Not a bit. Just exhausted,” he admitted, hugging her to himself gladly. “Sherlock! Am I glad to see you! I was afraid they’d got you, too. Are you okay? You look a bit under.”

“Mary’s patched me up. I’m fine. Oh, and we have an idea of the time you’ve had,” Sherlock said wryly. “We’ve been following your progress via Lestrade. Apparently you’ve terrorized six employees of the most dangerous drug lord in England with a shocking assortment of medieval weaponry.”

John dropped wearily into his armchair and laughed. “Medieval weaponry, is it? That’s rich. Mary, I brought you a present. I let it fall just inside the door there.”

Mary picked up the heavy object. “You brought home the goose? John, you’ve carried this thing the entire time you were running for your life?” she cried in astonishment. He gave her tired grin.

“Good job I had it, too. They took my gun and my knife when they captured me at gunpoint. Took my wallet, keys, and phone, too. But they were crap at knot-tying. I slipped out of the ropes, and grabbed the goose out of the chap’s hand who was carrying it, and started swinging.”

Sherlock nodded solemnly. “Frozen poultry can be a formidable weapon,” he agreed. “Especially when it’s wrapped in a mesh bag with a sturdy handle.”

“Exactly. I laid out three of them on the ground before they could react, then sprinted away. I didn’t have time to search for my other belongings. Without money or identity, I couldn’t get a cab, take the tube, or go for help at any police station. So I left a clear trail, then doubled back to watch for the chaps who were chasing me. I knocked out two of them, the third started in shooting. I had to take off and hide again. But then I saw the chap go into the police station. So I just came on home.”

Sherlock was delighted. “You’ve bested some of the most dangerous assassins in the city with a goose, John. I’m impressed,” he marvelled cheerfully. “But I wonder why they kept it when they first captured you. It would have made more sense for them to have left it behind.”

John shook his head. “Are you joking? Have you seen the price of goose this year? You’d think this thing was stuffed with diamonds, it’s so expensive! Only a fool would toss something this dear.”

Mary took the life-saving bird into the kitchen. “It’s going to be the most wonderful Christmas dinner we’ve ever had!” she exclaimed joyously. “We should have Greg over to share it with us. It will be the first time any of us have ever consumed a lethal weapon, I’m sure.” She picked up her phone and dialled.


End file.
